Camillo is making his way out of the crowd in the square, perhaps having visited some of the vendors alone, or perhaps having made certain necessary plans to remove certain impediments. Whatever he has been doing, he will surely also look rather different from the last time Malcolm saw him, his hair long and his beard shorter than he once wore it, much more neatly trimmed. He doesn't fail to notice Ser Malcolm, however, pausing near the path when he spots the knight, who in his absence has become an unexpected figure to encounter.

Malcolm's skin, usually a warm walnut shade, is much more tanned from months of sun and travel, his dark hair sun streaked. He is in his best doublet, the one with the little cape, likely in honor of the festival, rapier and long dagger at his belt.

"Yes, um…yes," Camillo replies, unable to recall exactly what he'd settled on calling Malcolm before he went away, what compromise between title and familiarity. "You've been away for some time," he observes, though surely Malcolm is aware of this fact. "I suppose you are back for the tourney."

Malcolm seems to have picked up on the discomfort and clasps his shoulder as he might a friend after an absence, "You do look well, Camillo. Why don't I treat you to a pint and you can tell me of your doings. I will tilt or certain, though the Seven know what I will do if I win a third time. I've no idea who I might choose without giving offense. Let us hope Ser Loryn, wins, shall we? And let us hope my new armour is ready in time for melee. I was going to stop by and see. I thought we'd agreed you's call me Mal?"

It is at least not out of character for Camillo to appear uncomfortable. "If you like, Ser…well. If…you prefer. Mal." It doesn't come easily to him to be so informal, despite their acknowledged friendship. "I know that you will fight well," Camillo says. "But Ser Loryn would be worthy. I hope neither of you will be hurt."

Malcolm squeezes his shoulder and starts steering him towards the refreshments, "Ale or Cider? It took rather longer than I thought it would and my new relatives are not as easy to deal with as I'd hoped. My sister is very… like me really, but alas, my father not so much. But what have you been up to? I think your new look suits you. It is a kind hope and i'm sure my lord would appreciate me not splitting open head or helm."

"Ale, I think," Camillo says, moving in that direction. "I have been tending to my duties, my…friend," he says, amending from 'my lord,' most likely. "The best that I know how. And caring for some plants."

Malcolm drops his hand once Camillo is moving the right way and gives him another friendly smile. "Ale it is." He orders them each a pint. 'Ah, what sort of plants? I've some flower seeds from Braavos. If you'd like some, I could send a paper of them round to the Tower for you. Are you terribly plagued with noble visitors?"

"Various," Camillo says. "I bought some seeds from far off, and I know them not at all, but some are beginning to make flowers." He dips his head. "I would like very much to have some seeds if you have them to spare." He looks off in the direction of the tower. "The Fossoways are staying with us."

Malcolm hands Camillo a tankard and steps off out of the way with his own. He peers off in the direction of the Tower, "The ones you served before the Hightowers? Is that…awkward?"

"Some…of the ones I served before, yes," Camillo says, taking the tankard with both hands and drinking. "It is… Well, there are a number of them and so it calls for organization and work. I have not dealt with them directly."

Malcolm sips his own, being generally fairly abstemious of habit. He looks at him over the rim, "If it turns out you need a place to…not be underfoot there is room in Weirwood."

Ser Malcolm says, "Is that why the First Men hair style? It does suit you either way, I think."

Camillo sips his drink as an excuse for a pause, while he thinks of how deceptive he wants to be. "I'm not sure if it suits me, my lord," he says. "But…I am trying it, for a time." He pauses and finally adds, "For someone who wished to see it."

Malcolm raises his eyebrows and looks pleased, "So you've been… courting? Good for you, Camillo. I hope whoever it is sees your worth."

Camillo seems rather embarrassed, drinking from his tankard. "I…well, yes," he says. "I say…only out of respect for you as…a friend." He nods once to punctuate that. "I…am satisfied that I am valued."

Malcolm grins and gives him a conspiratorial nudge, "That's good, Camillo. I won't inquire further into confidences you can't share, but I am glad. You do deserve a little joy after so much sorrow."

Camillo inclines his head in quiet thanks, glancing at Malcolm upon that nudge. "You are very kind," he says. "I…appreciate it more than some might, perhaps."

Malcolm gives his shoulder another friendly squeeze. "So what is with this lizard lion plague. Does it happen often?"

Camillo shrugs his shoulders, glancing at Malcolm again for that shoulder squeeze. "I cannot say," he says. "I have not been in Oldtown /so/ long. Perhaps it is not uncommon for the onset of fall. But…some say it is a bad omen."

Malcolm thinks that over, sipping his ale, "Are lizard lions beloved of the warrior or the stranger, do you think? Either way it should be good luck for you and I, if rough on the women who are with child."

Camillo tilts his head thoughtfully. "No one has ever told me," he admits. "But…yes. Perhaps it brings luck to some if not for others. Though I do miss the dolphins. I like them."

Malcolm nods a little sadly, "They are lovely things to see frisking out in the bay, aren't they, the dolphins? Let us hope it is not an omen of war, shall we? Worrying won't help anyone, especially the expectant Mother's who would better be calm and happy."

"If there were a war, who would it be between?" Camillo wants to know, being much less well-informed about the larger political issues than the smaller personal issues between nobles.

Malcolm says, "Us and Dorne. It's always us and Dorne and woe to the Smallfolk living in the March, but things have been quieter since Princess Visenya married their Prince. Peace is better for everyone, I think, and better to be fighting in tourney than fighting in some poor smallfolk field with the farmhouse smoking in the distance."

"Ah," Camillo answers, unsurprised. "You are right that war always seems to go hardest on the ordinary people. At least…it seems to me. It would be better not to have it."

Malcolm touches tankards, "To peace and good harvests!" He drinks it down.

Camillo toasts to that, and drinks apace. "What…will you do now that you are back?" he asks. "Besides the tourney."

Malcolm drinks deeper, he muscles of his neck shown off to best advantage, "Train mostly. Try and get the guards back into proper shape as who knows what habits they got in to without me watching them. Try and find a way to earn more coin so as to set things right back in Braavos."

"What needs to be paid for in Braavos?" Camillo wonders, looking to Malcolm. He is at least making more bold with questions than he ordinarily might."

Malcolm rubs his eyes, "More than I can ever raise. My idiot father _robbed_ a villa."

Malcolm's tone is long suffering. "To cover his gambling debts. He is a fool. They might have started fresh here or anywhere. I had a little bit of savings I could have set them up with, but instead there was some elaborate scheme to marry my sister off against her will and he insulted and infuriated Daevon and did not make a good impression on the Starks, and now they've come here, my idiot father dragging my poor sensible sister along behind him. I've put them up at the Manse, but he's apt to cause us all trouble I suspect."

Camillo nods a few times. "That is difficult," he says. "A common person can often run away, but it is hard for noble people to run away." He means this about Malcolm's sister, presumably.

Malcolm says, "All she wanted was to travel to YiTi to learn about their silk weaving industry and here is my idiot father tangling her in debts and drama."

Camillo looks thoughtful while he drinks. "My parents were not very clever," he says. "But they never went anywhere." Which is apparently a blessing?

Malcolm sighs, "Like me she has too strong a sense of duty to just abandon him. I really like her. My sister, I mean. I wish she would let me help her."

Malcolm drops his voice, "To be honest, my lord didn't court her, and she is not really wanting a husband, but I would have liked to see them wed. His manners were impeccable. Perfectly correct, and she indifferent, but it would have gotten her out of the endless troubles my father drags her into and it would have been a load off my mind to see Lord Carolis well settled.

Camillo nods thoughtfully, drinking with an expression still concerned. "Does she have some other love?" he wonders.

Malcolm says, "Weaving, I think. And her Independence. She had suitors, but none that seemed to interest her. We are… very alike. It was strange looking into her face and seeing how I might have been if I'd been a woman.""

Camillo looks curiously back at Malcolm. "Do you consider yourself independent?" he asks.

Malcolm blushes slightly, "I was. I left home at fifteen to make my fortune. Starks have a way about them though. Makes a man want to look after them and keep them from getting themselves killed.

"Everyone says they have a special quality," Camillo allows. He seems thoughtful. "I left home at fifteen, too, but I was not independent. No good has ever come of my being independent."

Malcolm studies him seriously, "I was the making of me…. Are you sure, Cam? You are a man now and not the raw lad you were."

Camillo nods once. "I am a man," he allows. "I was a man before I came to work for the Hightowers, as well. It goes hard on the ordinary to be on their own."

Malcolm shakes his head no, "But you're a different man than you were when we first met." His lip curls up remembering exactly what he was wearing, "And I am not who I was then either."

Camillo looks at the ground as he thinks that remark over. "That is also true," he admits. "I have become different." He looks to Malcolm. "You are still very young. You will be many men in your life."

Malcolm looks at him steadily, "I am content as I am, and what comes will come. I think if I had not sworn to the Starks, I'd not be as happy, but I needed my independence to become a man who would suit the life I chose. The journey is important, wherever it ends up taking a man."

Camillo nods faintly, and finishes off his ale. "I am glad to see you back in Oldtown. I think it is the better for you. Thank you for the ale."

Malcolm nods, "Whatever happens, you do have friend in Weirwood, and let us all hope Ser Loryn rides well on the morrow.